He was constantly hungry, his dreams filled with visions of tables groaning under the weight of holiday meals, the gnawing of his empty belly ever present, along with the guilt that he’d left behind his mother.
The sound of the piano broke his reverie. Ian shook his head to clear it, moving toward his dresser and scooping up the gold wristwatch that had been his father’s, the last vestige of that time. He slipped his calfskin wallet into his back pocket.
The swell of Chopin’s Prelude in E Minor grew stronger as he headed out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Grace was sitting at the Baldwin upright that had survived the move from Manhattan. It had been a lot easier getting it into this house than into the loft eleven years ago. Intent on the music, the sound loud enough that she couldn’t hear his footsteps, Grace kept playing as her father entered the room.
One tiny strap of her black tank top had slipped down her tanned shoulder, and with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and wearing khaki shorts and sandals, she looked younger. For one brief moment he thought she was ten again, happy to see him, eager to have him listen to a new piece she’d learned, her smile radiant as she’d barrel across the loft to hug him as he came in the door.
Grace saw him and the music stopped abruptly, the face turned toward his scowling. “Stop staring at me!”
“I wasn’t staring, I was watching.” Ian dared to rest a hand lightly on her dark head, but she jerked it off.
“I’m trying to play.”
“So pretend I’m your audience.” He tried to coax a smile out of her by making a goofy face. “Look, I’m dressed for it. Just pretend.”
They’d done this when she was little, calling it Carnegie Hall, and sometimes she’d made her own tickets and issued them to her parents and their friends.
Now the scowl remained firmly in place. “It isn’t ready.”
Yet she was already a better pianist than he’d ever be. Ian had made peace with his own middling talent years ago, choosing to go into teaching because he’d never be able to support himself as a performer, but there were moments when he felt almost envy for his daughter’s talent and annoyance at her lack of awareness of it.
He resisted the urge to force some point of connection with her, and said instead, “Where’s your mother?”
Grace shrugged, her attention already back on the sheet music. “The studio, I think.”
The music began again, haunting and lilting, as he walked from the living room down the hall to the kitchen where he grabbed a cup of coffee before heading out the back door.
He saw Kate before she saw him. She was bending over a box, her brow furrowed in concentration. It was a relief to see her out here. A relief to think that she was moving forward. Maybe everything would be okay.
He tapped lightly on the door and her head flew up, eyes wide with fear.
“It’s okay, it’s just me.” He hurried to reassure her, chest tightening with sympathy. Her eyes narrowed, the deep blue turning black.
“Don’t sneak up on me!”
“I didn’t think I was. It’s okay, Kate.”
He meant to calm her down, but it seemed as if everything he said just inflamed her. Between the frown and the thick titian hair made thicker by humidity and fanned about her head like a fiery halo, she looked like some mythical demon.
“I am calm! Or I was before you snuck up on me.”
“Fine.” He held up his free hand in surrender. “Whatever.” The word slipped from his lips effortlessly, and he only realized what he’d said after the fact. He saw it register in Kate’s raised eyebrows, followed by a half beat of silence while they stared at each other, and then they both burst out laughing.
“Channeling our daughter?” Kate said lightly.
“I guess so. Her Holiness has informed me that I’m not to sneak up on her or listen to her playing the piano.”
Kate laughed again, but with sympathy. “Oh, poor Ian! And I just jumped all over you again.” She gave him a quick hug, her small arm reaching out to encircle his waist and give it a gentle squeeze, her touch startling and electric. He brought his own arm around hers to try and hold it there, but she slipped away, out of reach.
“Too much estrogen in this place,” she said, her voice dropping deeper. An old joke between them, something an elderly professor had once said to him in her hearing. She didn’t sound like the cantankerous old man, she didn’t sound like a man at all, but he smiled anyway.
“I’ve got to take off, unless you need me?”
Kate’s own smile faded, but she shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“I was going to take the car.”
“Okay.”
“You sure you won’t need it?”
He was pressing, he knew that even before the crease appeared on her forehead, but he didn’t like the idea of her being without transportation.
“I don’t know if you can find a cab here,” he said out loud, wincing inwardly at the ridiculous cheeriness in his own voice.
“Where would I be going, Ian?”
They both knew she didn’t leave the house, that she could barely be coaxed anywhere these days. It had taken a tremendous effort to get her to go to that party the other night, and he’d had the feeling that he’d be paying for the gift of her presence for months to come.
“Okay, I’ll take the car then. I’ll call you later.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know. I want to.”
She accepted the kiss he offered, their lips pressing briefly together like paper, before Kate stepped back. Ian backed out of her space, noticing that her attention turned immediately back to the canvases at her feet. He heard the door close and the key turn in the lock as he walked away.
His shoes tapped lightly on the old bricks laid out in a herringbone pattern to form a driveway. A few of them looked loose, and he had no idea how they were anchored. Mortar? Years of apartment living hadn’t prepared him well for home ownership, but he would learn. When he reached the Volvo, he looked back at the studio and saw Kate standing at the windows looking out, but when he gave a little wave, she didn’t see him.
The old car’s engine coughed and spluttered, but finally roared to life, resuscitated once again, but soon they’d have to replace it. Or maybe, since they were going to buy a second car, the Volvo could hobble along for another year. It reminded him that he had to find a new mechanic; there was no way he was driving any car back into the city to get it serviced.
As he backed out of the driveway, he caught sight of their next-door neighbor coming out the front door of his weathered-looking frame house, the slap of the screen door catching Ian’s ear before the man’s striped shirt caught his eye.
He was an average-looking white man, middle-aged and balding, wearing a short-sleeved shirt that strained slightly over the fullness of a belly hanging over the belt of his pants.
Instantly forgettable except that when he saw Ian, the man actually stopped short before reversing and scuttling back up his front steps to hide in his shadowed front porch.
Ian let his hand drop, the friendly wave forgotten, and concentrated on backing onto the street without hitting the dusty white van parked in front of the neighbor’s door. Guy was obviously shy. A good thing really. The last thing he wanted was some garrulous country neighbor rushing over at every opportunity to share his expertise with the city folk.
Ian